Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars and Alex North, featuring piano by Bill Evans and keyboards by Herbie Hancock

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

I was reading in the March of Time
A story that looked more than a little like mine
It captured my nascence in the shadow of wealth
Though not the abuse, or profusions of bruising from the belts
It spoke of how by the time I was 1 and 9 I’d graduated
Once less than thrice, but not how I’d also almost died twice
Then a passage it adored, how I took none
Of my magnate folks’ money, yet made a whole lot more
It told of material success, but not how I set off untold revolutions
Disguised in flesh, which took up whole souls’ purchase without incurring
Something so apparent as a minor disturbance,
Changed his society for no price higher than mild annoyance
In the one paper full of experts, and eager commentariat
An esteem for better news, an even-handedness known to few,
It was a not believable story; and, in being so, accurate and true
Believable? I never have been

Oh you will find if you go reading
Leafing through the March of Time
Reading through the March of Time
A story just like this

Every morning in the mirror I see
The guy who tried to murder me
Unsuccessfully, thankful are we both
That I had too much HP, and since then we
Have struck up a friendship of moving address
In a tame West; he alone knows all the secrets
Of who I was at the time we met, that my body
Then was my shadow, and my shadow the real me.
At least, thanks to him, I knew I was capable of action,
Of imposing myself upon the world, if only to curtail
Forever possibility of the same.
I don’t dwell in those Badlands, but lord knows I sent
A lot of thought miners into that memory’s thorny pass
From the rock came resplendent questions hewed: 
To escape the fate that made you, and shape your
Own nature: you don’t have to do this alone, or do you?
And why are the good who are also strong so few?

You will find if you go reading
Leafing through the March of Time
Reading through the March of Time
A story just like this
The story is the story of the good guy
And what he was made and betrayed by

There’s an awful lot the lens of that profile couldn’t help you see
Like the expression my brother’s ghost carved in the moon and
Which shines down on our mutual enemies; the cynical, deceitful,
The unmerciful virtuous, the deaf to reason, and broccoli.
Like the love, scarred, pierced beyond belief, that still drives me
Like the untameable mare of unthinkable truth I ride freely
Easy do we forget the full expansive glory of our story
So, at ease the March of Time, let me tell you mine
You may not like what I have to say
And find you like me anyway
At first the story of the good guy seems
Like you’re gaining in everyone’s esteem for gallantly walking green fields
Then all of a sudden boys of bones emerge from below 
To run through you, though they look like you do
You begin to recognise the villainy of friends
Soon you’re pitching through a hell of tortures oddly specific and unheard of
Which you’ll think not even the staunchest villain’d deserve
All this to create a good that will subject to all that evil throw at it
And not lose its nerve and cry
“Who’d ever want to be the good guy?”
The goods you pretend to will fall under wheel on our way
And rot in your renewed sight of them will many of the comforting beliefs you hold dear
If you take up rein and ride through the story with me here
How good is formed: the last tale anyone ever wants to hear

“A tree that would try to hide what it is
In the end will bear its fruit”, quoted on
The back pages of the March of Time
It prints your tale, it prints mine
“If we can learn from each other
A little more we’ll live forever”
Rich philosophies run in
This ink

Our War and How We Won It

I Was Reading in the March of Time

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

I was born in Ghetto’s Landing, that’s to say
The place to which the poor page upon receipt of their first wage
That weighs enough to make the migration
Where they transcend one prejudice
And often step right into the next one
Prejudice which to many provides their bar, to keep
Successive generations harboured at that degree, but which
Leads an intellect like my daddy’s, to the treasure
Of exploiter and exploitee
Dad had a genius for finding the weakness
In people; on every insecurity a plantation, 
Believed there was nothing so immortal as vice
That fortune founded better on no other foundation
And a Pharisee ‘gainst contrary prophecy, saying here was a world
That would never end before the middle classes to whom he sold sing

“I’m so sick of the things my money can bring
My monarchs don’t mean a thing”
And the hustlers cry
“Money I don’t have is the best kind”

But the man to cause me first distrust the coin
Was not dad, but his vivaciously rapacious brother,
Dubbed himself the artist’s model Jew,
Deducted a ducat of his pocket, flicked me two.
Uncle’s was obvious eff-oo-ach-you money, make-sexy-
The-Black-Paintings-of-my-soul money, make-mollified-
Being-overtaken-in-success-by-little-brother-and-
His-pursuit-of-my-wild-bride-money,
So thick with prejudice he would summon the snow
Just so that a darker night would be recast paler white
Unrivalled in what dad would tell me was man’s
Primary instrument of survival – the power to despise
Mean, they were, mean like only those who believe that
The only way to get all they ever wanted is to take it,
And it took me quite a while to completely cleanse myself
Of the desire to be, even a little bit, just like them

Having been disinherited by my parents
I did better than they ever did, and not just
For the fact that I now own a giraffe basketball team
Who, come to that, are second best in their one team league, see
Perhaps because I had the good ill-fortune to be raised in such a way
I came to distrust money, to hate a buck used for nothing sweet or right,
And because I grew up where the stuff was by the by and by
I was remarkably young and spry when first I had the opportunity
To grow sick of everything my money can buy
Because it was used to fill the absence,
Wetted with milk and stuffed in my mouth to stifle a cry; 
Because it gave me every precious metal,
Gated all hope beyond nascence, and bid my brother die, quick grew I
Sick of everything my fine money can buy, everything,
The dollars and the monarchs and the yen
Sick of everything my fine money can buy, everything,
The dollars and the monarchs and the yen
Everything, everything, everything
My money can buy
Everything, everything, everything,
Moola mia, moola mia

Everything My Money Can Buy

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

And here two babes who found each other in the bulrushes
Who didn’t make it out of the hood
But got kicked out, took off right
For the patch of old Milne country wood where she told him
She’d preferred be proposed to,
The ring in his pocket fashioned by the topsy turvy
Perversions of the rotary kiln of a world that won’t stop turning,
Improbably formed, improbably strong, improbably determined
To make forever safe, loved and secure that kept within
As Elsheimer paints the night, having dispatched five rounds of
Lie-n-Pinocchio, she told me she had something to show me
(Me noticing all the while we’d left the car in drive the entire time)
I smote the thought she might embarrass my marriage proposal
With a proposal of her own, when she strummed up her brother’s tune
“Some people dislike such music,” she said
“But it’s better than it sounds”

My love, we’ll love by a single rule:
‘Who loves me half loves me none’
We’ll be the text that they teach to lovers in school
To keep them from just loving love

We were discussing then the Italian styling
Of this romantic violence, and that
This country’s values move too fast
Killing anything idling; she sang again,
Her tenor whose tone roisters like Rolls Royces,
I always knew weeping ripens the voice , here conclusive proof
Your song lured me away, into the vault of collective
Memory where it must’ve been forged; I thought of
Your folks, prone to overlook much, taken
In by the spectacle of their daughter, the rich bride, 
The inheritance I believe I shall reject
No closer to either of your remote surmise
My mind a pleasured isle that thought of nothing for perhaps
The very first time was occupied by surprise when you said
“One thing on my list: tell me what in mention of family,
Or future, sees you take on every time the aspect assumed by
A horse, startled, falling from a cliff;” witty she, bold and open-hearted,
I realised that I was less ready than ever to tell; and that this no longer mattered
She burred, and flicked her eyes, so I’d infer she’d prefer
Us step inside for my inner life to alight to light to be assized

In these wood do secrets glow
Just as not to let their slightness show
In the dark, in the light
Having divulged, I expect I might
Soon find that I’m calling through the night
“Come back, come back”

“Alright, my word, and my reduction to it,
The foulest of all things I intuit, is that
I may be doomed to inherit custody of
My family’s funfair of vice against my will;
That I may turn indifferent my child’s interests,
Culture their fear for my amusement,
Raise them as weapons against one another
And make my joy in withholding plain; 
And that this is cargo I cannot disburse, whatever
Pedigree of pirate good it attracts, 
And that, however much I appropriate, emulate
My dead brother’s tact, his will, his belief in man the
Magnate of optimism and the required fierceness of good,
He still isn’t coming back.”
As I shivered, reduced only to my word, moonlight
Rivering through those tiny windows, she
Made the closening moon’s glow into a ring
And proposed she turn me into a bat-shaped husband thing.
That’s appropriate timing, I said,
That’s a thousand clouds their thunder nicked,
That’s excess most wretched I never expected.
“Yes,” she grinned, “Daddy raised a jackass .”

"Daddy Raised a Jackass"

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

How might one compare me to a winter’s day?
Ossian, Nookie, Venus; assemble, let’s count the ways
(Venus) Mars you’re plastered, pissed!
Oh yeah, if I were plastered could I do this?
Could I do the moments while they do the seconds?
Stealin daylights like the sun collects em?
Make the game over as if this shit were Tekken?
Sip from the mainstream then make it change direction
My frost on the windscreen you look through coats
The world in the magic and realism of which it’s really mixed
Wanted to live and love higher so I became pariah
What was once uneasy green became the colour of the pariahtine
You are the voice of this generation
I am its stunned silencing
Escaped the premises of the poor and the psychoses of the poor
(Venus) Are you living? 
Yeah I’m living for four

(Ossian)
I’m putting coke on my cocoa puffs
Coke on my cocoa
Putting coke on my cocoa puffs
Coco, cocoa, riiiiight?
All the people have not and the banks are open
And I’ll have duffed up n diamond cuffed anyone who scuffs my seal pups
I pull a book down, I could copy the pages
But I can’t read, so long as the banks are open
I’ve been told my eyes are like mines of Leone diamonds
And they’re all fucking mine, they’re all fucking mine
The snow, could make romantic even the thought
Of John Candie’s dick
The same shade as my ivory 
 'Make Poverty History' wristband
I can’t move, I can work, I’m a stooge
Of the proven worth but, but, but
I could sell a doctorate to a doctor I bought
For a quid for 10p and still make a profit
The beauty I can’t have is the only one I want
Fuck it, fairness is the colour of coca-coca riiiight?

Here do I sit down
Just to be shown how
To reconcile the many sides of me

Is there a place for a darker instinct
I want what I want what I want what I want
Will you higher minds bless this trade deal with your imprint?
Your every better judgement will I haunt
With an empire on which the sun don’t rise?
Gonna help you build that paunch
On whose hills fall the snows of the coca coca
I want what I want what I want what I want
Though by reason I’m frequently slavified,
I can’t be killed, I cannot die
And other departments of mind still loft my ensign
Whenever they take pleasure in pursuits more fine
I brighten your eyes with the light of life,
And lead the best man you know to leave his wife
Fuck the world however it appears
And when it ends I want coke, I want ice cream

You may be reading in the March of Time
The stories of the three men here, who
Bear nothing in common but a bodily lair
And shared, mysterious visions of 
Elysium that I planted to conduct and
Unite them there.
I’m the voice you hate, it’s the voice that always
Implores you wait, for a second contemplate, moderate
That might make the energies of the id, the charm of
The world-turned face, and the innate idea singly confederate
How well I do my job will determine if you are
A human mastered and complex or just a fucking mess
In conflict they make a multitude of a man into a half of one
Purposed in the same direction they make a one-man posse cut
Without many souls within, brokered at times
To benign conflict, we can greet no great feat,
Nor be an army of one when there’s an urgent war to win,
But without mastery of self we are just mobile societies,
We’ll never move among the spirits we contain
Nor meet the best among them

Chocaine

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics coming soon to Genius.com

(Do You Know the) Cherub's House Address?

cover art is the original art
@1812922 x @drip-133

show some love to NEOTIC:
https://youtu.be/ZJngStpPzYU?t=26m37s

bine x drip-133 ♒ PIANO WIRE

RIGABAE - Windows95 美しい STARTUP

all of the happiness and love that was going through all the Penguins even though they knew everything was going to come to a close... But even so those Penguins were happy, this was many people's childhood's and seeing it go like that could bring anybody into tears. I can say that it's a lot more than just some PC game it's a life it's Happiness

@Business Casual

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Arctic Circuitry

Crystalline Surf

福原希己江 - 想い想われ

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Mars

Lyrics Reproduced by the Artist:

Lana, whose will held not her day’s disease;
Maria too; who, with bent benediction
And soul glued, for cheaper
For good and for better,
With palms as their turtle feathers
Flew away

“Laissez un petit paix pour me”
This Caixenese petitions God in broken French,
“Don’t let my spirit be roosted on waste,
Let my spirit migrate and please you new ways.

May I return Frelimo strong and Descartes wise
And if there is a war I’ll bring it home.”

Lana, whose will held not her day’s disease;
Maria too, who, with bent benediction
And soul glued, touched one hand to the fortune
She’d scorned, and to what it had protected her from;
To neither turned her back.

I’d kiss the ground she walked on,
If she only lived in a cleaner neighbourhood.
She was the author of her world
Like most authors never wrote
And like all authors wished for something
Better for her subject.

Maybe I’m a fool
Maybe that played a part
Maybe now I’ll come to know anew,
And be a better kind of fool.

Mars Lives

Lana Dolorosa

"Like a Dostoyevsky novel you can dance to..."

Baroque-hop, London blend

^)^

I Was Reading in the March of Time

Marsy Mars